


Begging

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Eyeshield 21
Genre: Begging, Established Relationship, M/M, Making Out, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rough Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-25
Updated: 2016-01-25
Packaged: 2018-05-10 00:24:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5561701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It’s Hiruma's legs that Musashi likes to have under his hands, or spread wide on his bed, or wrapped around him like they are now, with Hiruma’s ankles crossed at his back to hold them in close together in spite of their somewhat precarious perch." Hiruma challenges Musashi and Musashi takes him up on it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Begging

Musashi likes Hiruma’s legs.

He likes a lot of things about the other, from the soft-sharp spikes of his hair to the knife-edge of his smile to the way his clothes cling to the angles of his body without softening anything into the lie a curve would be. He likes Hiruma’s hands, likes the way his nails drag over skin and the way his wrist angles when he’s bracing himself, and he likes Hiruma’s laugh, likes the edge of it to match the danger of the other’s teeth and likes the raw of almost-hysteria under the sound. But it’s the length of Hiruma’s skinny legs that Musashi thinks about when he’s alone, on those rare occasions Hiruma can’t find adequate reason to come home with him, and it’s Hiruma’s legs he watches from the corner of his eye on the football field. It’s those that he likes to have under his hands, or spread wide on his bed, or wrapped around him like they are now, with Hiruma’s ankles crossed at his back to hold them in close together in spite of their somewhat precarious perch.

“We should move,” Musashi points out, making no effort at all to put this suggestion into action. He angles his knees wider to brace himself against the balance of the chair under him, to give Hiruma extra stability the other has shown absolutely no need of during the last few minutes of getting Musashi’s shirt half-off and marking a line of bitemarks down the other’s throat. “Before we fall.”

“We’re not going to _fall_ ,” Hiruma says, grating the word into absurdity, like this is the stupidest thing Musashi has ever said. He shifts his weight, presses himself closer, and Musashi shuts his eyes to the rush of heat, focuses his attention on breathing against Hiruma’s dark shirt and fitting his fingers against the knobs marking out the curve of the other’s spine under the fabric. “I could fuck you on this thing and we wouldn’t fall unless I wanted us to.”

“Yeah?” Musashi asks, his attention skidding out on the mental image of Hiruma’s words, punctuated by an unsubtle grind of the other’s hips against his. “Isn’t this still a public space?”

“Not if I lock the door,” Hiruma informs him. His teeth catch Musashi’s ear, nip a spark of almost-pain into the other’s blood. Musashi huffs an exhale, digs his fingers in hard against Hiruma’s back. “And when has that ever stopped you before?”

“We’ve done some stupid shit before,” Musashi agrees, dragging Hiruma closer by his hold on the other’s spine, fitting his mouth to the edge of Hiruma’s collarbone through his shirt so he can breathe hot against the fabric.

“Don’t you sound mature,” Hiruma teases. His mouth drops, his teeth find a rising bruise at Musashi’s shoulder; Musashi’s breathing turns to a groan at the pressure, his head tilts sideways to make more space for Hiruma’s mouth on his skin. “Don’t tell me you’re not up for it, old man.” His hand at Musashi’s shoulder tightens to braces the other in place before Hiruma rocks his hips at an angle that dramatically clarifies the meaning of his sentence and makes Musashi grunt and grab at his knee to still him.

“Never said I wasn’t,” he says, his words turning to a groan as Hiruma’s teeth bruise his skin, mark out another crescent of shadow at his shoulder.

“Good,” Hiruma says, punctuating with the press of his lips and a slick drag of suction to bring another surge of color under the tan of Musashi’s skin. Musashi shudders with it, braces his hands at Hiruma’s hip and the small of his back so he can pull Hiruma closer, can rock himself up to grind against the inside of Hiruma’s wide-spread thighs. “I’m not in the mood for begging for a fuck today.”

“Isn’t that what you’re doing?” Musashi asks, pressing the words into Hiruma’s shoulder to fray and tear against his collarbone.

“This?” Hiruma rolls his hips, coughs a laugh at Musashi’s shoulder. “This isn’t _begging_.”

“No?” Musashi lets his hold at Hiruma’s hip go, drags his hand across and down to press his palm flush against the zipper of Hiruma’s jeans, to pin the friction of the denim in against the heat of the other’s cock. “You sure?”

“Yeah,” Hiruma drawls, tilting his hips forward to thrust hard against Musashi’s touch, drawing the friction long with a deliberate angle of his hips. “You want to see begging?”

“Yeah,” Musashi says, opening his eyes and looking up to see the way Hiruma is watching him, his eyes black on heat and his smile sharp as glass. “I do.”

“Too bad,” Hiruma grins at him, and then he’s slipping away, untangling himself from Musashi’s hold as easily as if he’s boneless, as if he’s made of mercury instead of human flesh. “You’ll have to make me.”

Musashi blinks, feeling his skin chill in the absence of Hiruma’s warmth, feeling the way his heart is thudding hard on adrenaline in his chest. His shoulder aches, he can feel the pain of teethmarks pressed into the skin; when Hiruma smiles it looks like an offer for more.

“Make you,” he repeats, slow, like he’s considering the offer. He lets his gaze slide down from Hiruma’s face, drawing over the steep tilt of his shoulders and the angle of his hip, lingering long and appreciative over the dark of the denim clinging to his legs. “Sounds like a plan.”

Hiruma grins, his eyes shining dark with amusement, his teeth bright with edges, and Musashi doesn’t even care that it looks like victory, doesn’t care that he’s walked right into whatever response Hiruma wanted to win from him. He pushes to his feet, pauses to stretch out the tension in his spine, and Hiruma steps backwards, as light on his feet as if he’s dancing, as if he’s unhindered by the demands of gravity.

“You’ll need this,” he suggests, reaching around to one of his back pockets. Musashi is ready for the bottle Hiruma tosses to him, expecting it even though he’s never sure how Hiruma fits anything into his pockets for how near they cling to his skin. He doesn’t offer thanks; he just reaches for the bottom of his shirt, tugs the fabric up and off his head while Hiruma backs himself up against the wall, tips back to press his shoulders to the lockers behind him so the metal doors clatter at the weight.

“You really think you can make me beg?” he taunts, his grin pulling wider as Musashi approaches, hemming in the escape routes Hiruma won’t bother to use with each forward step he takes. “You don’t have the stamina, old man.”

“Don’t I?” Musashi asks. He’s close enough to touch, now, near enough to kiss, and Hiruma is tilting up towards him, his grin easing into the parted lips of expectation. Musashi ducks in to kiss him, to fit his mouth against the bubblegum-sweet of Hiruma’s, and when Hiruma laughs he swallows the sound, catches it on his tongue as he reaches up to set his fingers around the back of Hiruma’s neck. Hiruma shifts his hands, reaches for the front of his own jeans, and Musashi doesn’t try to stop him, occupies himself instead with licking into the gunpowder heat of Hiruma’s mouth while the other unfastens his zipper.

“No,” Hiruma says when he finally draws away, his mouth damp from Musashi’s and his smile a little easier than it was. “I don’t think you do.” He pushes his jeans off his hips and now Musashi does interrupt, reaching out to replace Hiruma’s hold with his own as the denim peels off pale skin. He trails the motion down, dropping to his knees as he goes, until there’s just bare skin in front of him, Hiruma kicking his foot free of his jeans without any visible self-consciousness at the heat of Musashi’s eyes on him. He steps free of the clothing, kicks it aside while Musashi is still reaching for his hips, and his fingers settle into Musashi’s hair, pushing back the weight of it while Musashi ducks in close, abandoning the appeal of Hiruma’s flushed cock for the moment in favor of pressing his mouth to the tense line of the other’s thigh instead. He can feel the way the muscle jumps under his mouth, the way Hiruma’s fingers seize into fists in his hair, but Hiruma’s voice is still steady, taunting even, as he tips his knee wide in a blatant offer of the pale inside of his leg.

“I can outlast anyone,” Hiruma says as Musashi kisses against his skin, trailing a line of friction up the inside of the other’s thigh. He can feel the way Hiruma’s hips buck forward when he licks an inch of heat over his skin, can see the way Hiruma’s cock jumps in his periphery. “Definitely an old man like you.”

“Yeah?” Musashi says, his voice coming out as a low rumble he can feel turning over to heat in his chest. He lets Hiruma’s hips go, draws back for a moment so he can open the lid of the bottle in his hands. Hiruma’s fingers drag at his hair, silent urging to pull him in close again, but Musashi ignores the ache of pressure across his scalp, takes his time slicking his fingers with lube. “You’re underestimating the value of experience.”

Hiruma’s laugh is so sharp it nearly covers the way it shakes in his throat. “Yeah,” he drawls, skepticism hot on his tongue. Musashi sets his fingers to the inside of Hiruma’s knee, draws his fingers up in a slow, slick motion of promise. “Cause you’ve got _so_ much more of that than me.”

“I just make good use of mine,” Musashi says. His mouth fits to Hiruma’s leg, his lips catch to hold suction at the skin; Hiruma hisses at the sensation, his hand dragging at Musashi’s hair, but he doesn’t pull away, even when Musashi’s fingers slide against the inside of his thighs to brace a thumb against the tension in Hiruma’s leg. “I’ve had plenty of time to reflect on them, after all.” He fits his finger against Hiruma’s entrance, angles his hand sharply; the force sinks him in past the first knuckle, drags a jolt of reaction and a startled groan from Hiruma over him, and Musashi looks up through his hair to see the way Hiruma’s shoulders are rocking back against the locker. “I’ll show you.”

“Fuck,” Hiruma says at the ceiling, his throat straining on the words. He’s clenching hard around Musashi’s touch, his body going hot in shuddering waves of tension. “You’re supposed to be gentle, you know.”

“I know,” Musashi says, and draws back to thrust in again, farther by the span of inches. Hiruma chokes on a breath, closes his mouth on his reaction so it comes out a whimper instead of a moan. “But you like it fast.”

“Fuck you,” Hiruma says, fingernails catching at Musashi’s scalp to drag a burst of sensation over the skin. “You weren’t supposed to fucking remember that.” Musashi draws his hand back, thrusts in deep, and Hiruma’s cock twitches again, offers a spill of precome at the drag of Musashi’s fingers. “ _Fuck_.”

“I wasn’t going to forget,” Musashi says, a promise as much as a statement, and when he moves it’s to catch his mouth at Hiruma’s cock, to slide his tongue up across the salty wet spilling over the swollen head. Hiruma jerks against the lockers, causes another clatter of metal with the motion, and Musashi fits his hand to the sharp dip just over Hiruma’s narrow hip, catches his fingers into a steady hold to pin the other back in place. It’s a precaution as he draws his fingers back, as he lets Hiruma slide in over his tongue, and a good one; Hiruma shudders at the second finger, his entire body quivering with the sensation as he drags at Musashi’s hair with painful force. He’s tight around the pressure, his body tensing with every drag of Musashi’s tongue over him, but Musashi keeps moving, thrusting his fingers in deeper and letting Hiruma slide farther into his mouth with every dip of his head.

“Fuck,” Hiruma is saying over him, enough heat on the word that it sounds angry, would pass for such if Musashi couldn’t feel how warm he is to the touch, if Musashi couldn’t taste appreciation bitter on his tongue. “ _Fuck_ , fuck you, old man, you’re not.” Musashi sucks against him, curls his fingers in like he remembers he used to, and Hiruma arches hard against the lockers, his legs trembling with the strain.

Musashi draws back, licks salt off his lips without looking up to see the way Hiruma is watching him. “Not what?” he asks, working his fingers deeper, spreading them wider just to feel the way it makes Hiruma tighten around him.

“ _Damnit_ ,” Hiruma spits. “ _Fuck_ me, Musashi.”

“You don’t like this?” Musashi asks, taking another slow thrust with his fingers into the slick heat of Hiruma’s body. “Is this not enough?”

“ _No_ ,” Hiruma snaps, and he drags at Musashi’s hair so hard it forces the other’s head back, draws his gaze up to see the way Hiruma is glaring at him, to see the shadows in his dark eyes and the part of his lips around his breathing. “I want your fucking _cock_ in me, not your _fingers_.”

Musashi can feel all the blood in his body go hot, can feel himself go so painfully hard against the front of his jeans that he’s momentarily lightheaded. He doesn’t know what expression he makes -- it’s enough to give him away, at least, enough that Hiruma is grinning victory at him well before he’s collected himself enough to slide his fingers free and get to his feet.

“That’s better,” Hiruma purrs, winding his arms around Musashi’s neck and angling his leg around the other’s hip before Musashi has yet managed to unfasten the front of his jeans. “Don’t give me that coy bullshit.”

“Fine.” Musashi gets his pants open, pushes them aside enough to free his cock; Hiruma hums, reaches out to catch skinny fingers against it before Musashi even has a chance. His hold is too tight, the pressure enough to white-out Musashi’s attention with excess, but the sound in his throat is a groan instead of a complaint, and when Hiruma arches in close to draw them together Musashi moves without hesitation.

“Like this,” Hiruma is saying, and he’s angling them into alignment and Musashi is grabbing at his leg instead, fitting his hand in under the dip of Hiruma’s knee to take the support of his balance on his arm instead of his hip. Hiruma is looking down, his mouth pulled into a purring smile of anticipation, and Musashi is looking at him, looking at the edges of his teeth and the dark shadows of his eyelashes and the tension in his throat. There’s a slide of friction, the promise of heat, and Musashi rocks up without thinking, without hesitating, his cock sliding forward into the grip of Hiruma’s body without time to think. Hiruma hisses, Musashi groans, and he’s thrusting in deeper, farther, pressing as close as he can get while Hiruma’s hand swings up to catch a handful of his hair.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Hiruma says, the syllables fire on his lips and smoke on his tongue. “God _damn_ it.”

Musashi inhales hard, coherency dying to the haze in his thoughts, and pushes Hiruma’s leg higher, nearly up to the other’s shoulder, before he draws back to take another thrust into him. Hiruma jolts, gasps something unintelligible, and Musashi does it again, dipping his shoulder down so he can fit himself under the open angle of Hiruma’s knee. It’s easier to take the other’s weight like this, easier to balance them together, and Hiruma’s clinging to his hair and drawing up on the tiptoes of his bracing foot but it’s fine, Musashi can take the whole weight of him like this. He drops his hand to Hiruma’s other leg, catches under his knee, and Hiruma groans a “Jesus _christ_ ” but he lets Musashi pull him up, lets his other leg drop so his knees are bracketing Musashi’s shoulders. It must be a strain for his thighs -- Musashi can feel the tension thrumming through the other’s body -- but when Musashi rocks forward into him Hiruma’s head goes back, his neck curving into a column of tension as his “ _Fuck_ ” goes hot and trembling in his throat. Musashi can’t breathe, can’t think; he’s just moving, fucking Hiruma back against the lockers hard enough that there’s an answering _bang_ from the metal with each stroke he takes. Hiruma’s cursing, an unbroken stream of sound too low for Musashi to make out the individual syllables, but when Hiruma lets Musashi go it’s only to brace his arm flat against the lockers to steady himself while he drops his other to close around the flushed heat of his cock. Musashi has a hold on his hips, his arms bracing Hiruma’s legs in place at the high angle they’ve achieved, and the pace he’s setting is as much instinct as intent, the rhythm forming itself as much from the beat of his heart and the rush of heat in his veins as from any deliberate attempt to draw Hiruma shuddering to incoherency. But he’s going anyway, his words dying to open-mouthed silence even as Musashi watches, his forehead creasing as his mouth goes soft, as his eyes go dark with anticipation of satisfaction.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he spits, and “Youichi,” Musashi says, and Hiruma’s head goes back, his expression collapsing into wide-eyed heat as his cock jerks and starts to spill over his fingers. He’s gasping for air, his shoulders straining for each inhale, and Musashi doesn’t stop, just keeps driving into him as Hiruma pulses tight around him. He’s trying to hold out, trying to last until Hiruma falls slack and shaky against the lockers behind him, but in the end orgasm catches him unawares, Hiruma choking out a high whimper of pleasure that sends Musashi abruptly over the edge. His body draws taut, his lungs tense on a sudden spill of sound, and then he’s coming, heat and relief rushing over him in a wave that stutters his rhythm to stillness and leaves him gasping for air against the line of Hiruma’s shoulder.

It takes them a minute to disentangle themselves. Musashi slides free first, is easing Hiruma’s leg down while the other is still hissing at the friction of the loss; then Musashi gets his hand back under Hiruma’s knee, lowers the weight while Hiruma catches his balance, and then they’re both back on the ground again, if leaning rather more heavily on the lockers than they were to start.

“Nice try,” Hiruma observes, sounding breathless and hot even around the drag of his grin. His fingers pull into Musashi’s hair, tug sensation out over his scalp. “Too bad you didn’t get that begging you wanted.”

“No?” Musashi braces his forearm at the lockers, leans in close to cast Hiruma’s smile in his shadow. “What was that about wanting my cock and not my fingers?”

“A statement,” Hiruma purrs, his arm looping around Musashi’s shoulders as his grin goes wider, as his head tilts to the side. “Definitely not begging.”

“Ah,” Musashi says, slow and considering. “My mistake.”

“Yep.” Hiruma leans in closer, dragging Musashi nearer by the weight of his body hanging off the other’s shoulders. “Guess you’ll just have to try again.”

Musashi drops his free hand to Hiruma’s hip, fits his fingers into a wide hold and presses hard against the other’s skin. “Guess so.”

Hiruma is still grinning when Musashi kisses him.


End file.
